


Married Life

by Captain_Panda



Series: My Greatest Adventure [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Look I Saw An 'Up' Stony Art Piece and I Had To, M/M, Married Couple, Rated T for Sadness, uplifting ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: "Up" AU.“Hi, Mr. Rogers.”“Hello,” Mr. Rogers greeted, standing in the doorway to the little bungalow.  “What can I do for you today, son?”“Actually, I came to see if there was anything I could do for you?”Steve outlives Tony.Months later, Benjamin Parker, Peter and Michelle Jones' college-aged son, stops by, and begins keeping Mr. Rogers company.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: My Greatest Adventure [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095125
Comments: 58
Kudos: 152





	Married Life

**Author's Note:**

> This one hurt. It goddamn hurt, because it was inspired by a beautiful piece of fanart--
> 
> https://thirstinart.tumblr.com/post/617232910295203840/one-year-without-you
> 
> \--and honestly, I couldn't *not* write an "Up" AU _tout suite_ after all of my feelings scattered like marbles across the floor. I am still, to this day (as in, five hours later), collecting my feelings. This is a heroically gifted fandom when it comes to talent, and I wanted to add my own contribution in the Pain Train department. 
> 
> I'll admit, this is not usually what I do, and I even skipped the obligatory smoke and mirrors dance. There's MCD here. And there's no "Angst with a Happy Ending" tag, because while this fic _does have_ a very uplifting ending, I cannot guarantee that all readers will find it "happy," because the MCD stands firm. 
> 
> However, I can say this, and I hope it will make it worth reading: I would not tag a Steve/Tony fic, a Steve/Tony fic, if there was not *one* Steve/Tony interaction. So, press onward and see for yourself, and I think you'll be very pleased. Or turn back now and enjoy your day. <3
> 
> Yours, always,  
> -Cap'n Panda
> 
> P.S. _[Married Life](https://youtu.be/2rn-vMbFglI)_ by Michael Giacchino.

“Hi, Mr. Rogers.”

“Hello,” Mr. Rogers greeted, standing in the doorway to the little bungalow. “What can I do for you today, son?”

“Actually, I came to see if there was anything I could do for you?”

“Oh,” Mr. Rogers said. “Well.” Mr. Rogers explained, “I’m all right.”

“I could run to the store for you—do you need anything, food, medication?”

“I get my groceries delivered on Sundays, thank you.”

“Oh, okay. Hey, so, Dad says you don’t . . . well, there’s—would you like to go see a movie? Or, you know, go to the park?”

“Oh,” Mr. Rogers said again. “No, I don’t think so. I have a television. And I can sit on the porch when I want to.”

“Oh, okay,” Benjy Parker said again. “Well, if you change your mind about the movies or the groceries, Mr. Rogers, just let me know, I’m in town for the week, spring break and all.”

“Thank you, son.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Rogers. Oh, and Mom and Dad say hi.”

“Hello to Mom and Dad. Let me know if they or you need anything. I am around.”

“Will do. Have a good day, Mr. Rogers.”

* * *

“Hi, again, Mr. Rogers.”

“Hello, son,” Mr. Rogers greeted, standing in the doorway to the little bungalow. “What can I do for you today?”

Extending a bag full of charred chocolate chip cookies, Benjy said, “Dad said to invite you for dinner. These are a bribe.”

“Well,” Mr. Rogers said. “These are burnt to a crisp.”

“Yeah—he said it’s how you liked it.”

Mr. Rogers smiled. “No,” he said, taking the bag. “But thank you very much. I will eat these.”

“Oh,” Benjy said, frowning. “Mr. Rogers, you don’t have to, if you don’t—really, I didn’t—”

“Son,” Mr. Rogers said, “these are my cookies now. Best be on your way.”

“Will you join us, then?” Benjy pressed.

Mr. Rogers did not smile any longer. “No, I don’t think I will,” he said. “Say hello to Mom and Dad.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Rogers. Have a good day. Sorry about the cookies.”

“Don’t be, son. They’re just right for me.”

* * *

“Hello, Mr. Rogers.”

“Hello, son,” Mr. Rogers greeted, standing in the doorway to the little bungalow, one hand perched on a cane. “What can I do for you today?”

“Is this a bad time?” asked Benjy, frowning at the cane.

“No,” Mr. Rogers said. “It is just going to rain.”

Looking upward at the blue, blue skies, Benjy said hesitantly, “I don’t think that’s right, Mr. Rogers. Nobody says it’s gonna rain in the forecast.”

“It will,” Mr. Rogers assured. “What can I do for you today?” Mr. Rogers repeated.

“Oh,” Benjy said, looking down at his bag and pulling out a book. “I brought you a book. Dad says you liked to read, and it’s about—well, he said you collect these.”

With one hand perched on the cane, Mr. Rogers opened a hand, accepting the book. “You know,” Mr. Rogers said, “they said books would go extinct. I am glad they did not. I will keep this.”

Benjy said, “Are you . . . all right, Mr. Rogers?”

Without a word, Mr. Rogers turned, gripping the book on the newest line of Mark 95 suits tightly to his chest, and let the door shut behind him.

* * *

“Mr. Rogers? Hellooo? Are you there?” Benjy knocked twice more, waited, and finally declared, “I’ll stop by later, all right?”

* * *

“Oh, hi, Mr. Rogers,” Benjy said, audibly relieved.

“Hello, son,” Mr. Rogers greeted, standing in the doorway to the little bungalow, cane under hand.

“Is it gonna rain?” Benjy asked. It had not rained in days. The furrow in Mr. Rogers’ brow did not abate.

“No,” Mr. Rogers said. “I do not think so anymore. What can I do for you today, son?”

“Well,” Benjy said, then, starting over, “. . . are you all right, Mr. Rogers?”

Mr. Rogers said, “I am quite well, son. How are you today?”

“I—well, I just want you to be all right, Mr. Rogers. We all want you to be all right, you know?”

“That’s kind of you, son. I’m quite well, I assure you.”

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, son.”

“If you’re sure. Listen—I know you don’t want to go out and see a movie, but what if—well, we could, you know, bring one over, there’s gotta be something new you haven’t seen that you’d like to watch, right?”

Mr. Rogers said, “No, I don’t think there is. Thank you anyway.”

“No problem, Mr. Rogers. And if you change your mind—”

“I know just who to call. Thank you, son.”

“All right. Have a good day, Mr. Rogers.”

“You, too, son. Say hello to Mom and Dad.”

* * *

“Mr. Rogers?”

“Hello,” Mr. Rogers greeted, standing in the doorway to the little bungalow, cane in hand. “What can I do for you today, son?”

“Well,” Benjy said, unable to repress a smile, “I just wanted to share something I was working on. Figure—well, see for yourself.” He thrust out a tablet, and then added, “Sorry, that was rude—”

Taking the tablet in hand, Mr. Rogers said, “This is something.”

“It’s just for fun,” Benjy explained, “but Dad and I think we can take it somewhere.”

“Can’t imagine you can’t, son,” Mr. Rogers said, flipping through the tablet’s screens before holding it out. “Signed and sealed.”

“Wow,” Benjy said. “Can I have that in writing?”

Mr. Rogers smiled a little. “No,” Mr. Rogers said. “You may not.”

“Worth a shot. So, you like the mods to the 95?”

“I think, son,” Mr. Rogers said, “it is exactly what he would have wanted.”

Benjy said again, “Wow.” Then, “Thank you.”

“Have a good day, son.”

“You, too, Mr. Rogers.”

* * *

“Mr. Rogers?”

“Hello,” Mr. Rogers greeted, standing in the doorway to the little bungalow, looking narrower around the shoulders. “I did not hear you come up the road.”

“I brought more cookies,” Benjy announced, holding up the bag of burnt cookies.

Mr. Rogers looked at the bag and said, “Oh.” Then Mr. Rogers said, “I am afraid I am not feeling well today, son.”

“Oh,” Benjy said, stuffing them into his satchel. “That’s fine. I’ll eat them.”

“That’s kind of you,” Mr. Rogers said. “Good day, son.”

“Mr. Rogers?” Benjy said. “Do you need anything?”

The door shut quietly behind Mr. Rogers. “Okay,” Benjy said. “I’ll stop by tomorrow?”

* * *

Mr. Rogers did not answer the door tomorrow.

* * *

Or the next day.

* * *

Or the next.

* * *

“Hello,” Mr. Rogers greeted on the fourth day, standing in the doorway to the little bungalow, frame noticeably leaner.

“Hey,” Benjy said, holding up a container and explaining, “I brought homemade chicken noodle soup? Mom said Dad needs to stop feeding you burnt cookies.”

Mr. Rogers said, “Son.” Benjy’s heart twisted. “Perhaps it would be best if you did not come by tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Benjy said. Rallying, he added, “That’s fine. I don’t mean to be such a bother.”

“You’re never a bother, son. I simply am not feeling like myself. Next week will be better.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Rogers. Feel better soon. You can call Mom and Dad any time, all right? I’m up all night, too, so you can talk to me, if you want.”

“That’s kind of you, son.”

“Feel better, Mr. Rogers. Please let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, son.”

* * *

On Monday morning of the new week, Benjy knocked on Mr. Rogers’ front door.

Mr. Rogers answered after a long, long pause, standing in the doorway of the little bungalow, one hand on the cane, looking gray-faced and worn. “Hello,” Mr. Rogers greeted.

“Hi,” Benjy replied, stumbling a little over the unoffered, _What can I do for you today, son?_ “So, uh—” He looked Mr. Rogers over, thin frame trembling in the doorframe, and finally asked, “Do you need a hug, Mr. Rogers?”

“No, thank you, son,” Mr. Rogers said. “I do not need anything, son.” Then Mr. Rogers asked, “What can I do for you today?”

Benjy tried a new approach: “Could you—would you take a walk with me?”

Mr. Rogers blinked at him, once. Then Mr. Rogers said, “I would have to find my coat.”

“I can wait,” Benjy assured.

“Do you have classes, son?” Mr. Rogers asked sternly.

“No,” Benjy said. “Not till after noon.”

Mr. Rogers seemed unsure for a moment longer. Then, turning away without a word, Mr. Rogers creaked off, cane clicking against the floor. He returned, cane free, wearing a gray coat that hung on his frame, hands stuffed in the pockets. “All right, son,” Mr. Rogers announced. “Let’s take a walk.”

* * *

“What classes do you take, son?” Mr. Rogers asked.

Benjy told him. Engineering, mostly. “I like to make,” he summarized quaintly. He did not know what he hoped to draw from it.

Mr. Rogers prompted dozens of questions, intricate threads, mapping out his life, like he was the President of the United States, and Mr. Rogers wanted to interview him for posterity. Mr. Rogers asked about what sports he liked to play as a kid, and if he was a fast runner or a good pitcher, and if he wanted to get married when he was older, and what kept him up at night. Mr. Rogers asked if he’d ever been out West and so they talked about how much traveling the Parker family had done, all over, really, and when Benjy finally asked, “Do you like to travel, Mr. Rogers?” Mr. Rogers simply said:

“Not much. Not anymore.”

Then Mr. Rogers asked him where he would like to go next, and Benjy told him about graduate school, and life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and maybe even an apprenticeship on Mars. “Be out of this world,” he said. “You know? It’s a lot—Dad’s been once and he says, _Never again_ , but he still loved it, talks about it all the time. Mom says you couldn’t pay her enough to do it. Would you go?”

Mr. Rogers did not reply to that directly, saying instead, “I think you would make a fine astronaut, son.”

And when he put it that way, an _astronaut_ , it was suddenly irresistible to Benjy. “Well,” Benjy conjectured aloud, “when you put it that way, how could I say no?”

“It is always your choice, son,” Mr. Rogers reminded, walking alongside him, comfortingly present. “Embarkation is what makes a boy a man. When the light of home is no longer visible, that is when you shine.”

“I can see why they made you Captain America,” Benjy said, awed.

“You could be Captain America,” Mr. Rogers said. “Any person, of any creed, could be Captain America. There is nothing special about me.”

“That isn’t true, Mr. Rogers. There’s lots special about you. You’re brave and smart and everything you’ve done in your lifetime is gone above and beyond.”

“I think,” Mr. Rogers said, slowing and turning a corner, closing the circuit of their route, “we should be getting back now, son.”

“It’s true,” Benjy insisted.

“Kind of you to say so, son.” Then, in a rare moment of confidence, Mr. Rogers said, “I am not half the man as those beside me.” For the duration of the walk, Mr. Rogers said no more.

* * *

Benjy said, “Would you like to take a walk, Mr. Rogers?”

Mr. Rogers stood in the doorway to the little bungalow, one hand on the cane, looking pale and lean and weary. “No, thank you, son,” Mr. Rogers said. “I don’t think I will.”

* * *

Again, Benjy said, “How about to the end of the block, Mr. Rogers?”

Mr. Rogers stood in the doorway to the little bungalow, one hand on the cane. “No, thank you, son,” Mr. Rogers repeated. “I think you’d best be on your way.”

“Can I get you anything?” Benjy pressed. “Anything at all?”

“No,” Mr. Rogers said. “There is nothing I need.”

“Would you come over? Just once? It’d be nice. We have a dog, you know—you like dogs, I know you do, Dad said you and—you and Mr. Stark, you used to have a dog.”

“Yes,” Mr. Rogers said. “We did. That’s all right, son.”

“All right, Mr. Rogers. Have a good day.”

“You, too, son.”

* * *

“ _Hello?_ ” Mr. Rogers greeted.

“Hi, Mr. Rogers! I—well, this is going to sound silly, but I didn’t think you’d pick up,” Benjy replied. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Mr. Rogers said. “ _I am all right. How are you, son?_ ”

“That him?” Dad asked across the room, muting the television and bouncing to his feet. Benjy nodded, gesturing him over and putting the phone on speaker. “Hey, Cap,” Dad said. “How we doing today?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Mr. Rogers said again. “ _Hello, Peter. How are you?_ ”

“I believe that was my question,” Dad huffed, folding his arms across his chest in characteristic _now what did I say about taping silly string cannisters to the Roombas?_ “You’ve got three choices: _Okay, not so well,_ and _please, son, rescue me from my misery_.”

“ _I am all right, son_ ,” Mr. Rogers said. “ _Thank you for the cookies_.”

“Returned the last batch—not quite charcoal enough for ya?” Dad said. “Thought I’d gotten the recipe down-pat.”

“Dad,” Benjy muttered, nudging him in the ribs.

Mr. Rogers said, “ _Oh, they were all right. I simply was not feeling well_.”

“I’ll have Benjy send you another batch.”

Mr. Rogers said, “ _That won’t be necessary, son_.”

“Is that Mr. Rogers I hear?” Mom yawned, stepping down the stairs. “My, at this hour? You boys are up to no good, tormenting an old man this early in the morning.”

“Well,” Benjy justified, “Mr. Rogers said any time, and I thought I’d test it and see.”

“ _It is good to test things_ ,” Mr. Rogers said. “ _Thank you for calling_.”

“Now wait a minute,” Dad said. “I finally got you where I want you, you’re not leaving me that easily. How’ve you been, Cap? Ben, go to bed, the old boys need to have a chat.”

“Dad,” Benjy protested. “C’mon, I _called_ him.”

“ _No, I should leave you_ ,” Mr. Rogers said.

“Rogers,” Mom said, her voice so gentle it stuck in Benjy’s throat. “Please, don’t hang up. It’s been so long.”

“ _Hello, Michelle,_ ” Mr. Rogers said. “ _How are you today?_ ”

“You,” Dad insisted, both hands on Benjy’s shoulders, now, steering him towards the stairs, “bed. Or else I won’t let you test out the 95 till you graduate.”

Aghast, Benjy said, “May got _her_ suit when she was eighteen!”

“Hers only went to fifteen thousand feet,” Dad reminded, propelling him along. “Now, I’d be happy to reconfigure yours—”

Horrified at the thought of losing out on 100k, Benjy said sweetly, “Night, Dad. Night, Mom.” Then, loud enough to be heard across the distance, he added, “Good night, Mr. Rogers.”

He could swear he heard a soft voice reply, “ _Good night, son_.”

* * *

“Mr. Rogers? Groceries are here.”

Mr. Rogers appeared in the doorway to the little bungalow. He looked very tired. “Hello, son,” Mr. Rogers said. “You can leave them there.”

“I can bring them in,” Benjy offered, crouching down to pick up a bag.

“No, son,” Mr. Rogers said, holding out a thin arm. Reluctantly, Benjy slide the bag onto it. “That will be all.”

“Anything I can do for you?” Benjy asked, pleaded. It was raining. Mr. Rogers’ left leg trembled, hand gripping the cane. “I mean, I’d offer to cut the lawn but, you know, with the rain—I still could—”

“It’s all right, son.” Mr. Rogers looked at him, then crouched and gathered the remaining bags slowly. “I just need a moment to do anything, is all.”

“Oh, well—if you’re sure—”

“Thank you, son,” Mr. Rogers said, limping off into the bungalow, letting the door shut behind him.

* * *

“Mr. Rogers?”

Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak. The door opened slowly. 

Benjy said, “Hi, Mr. Rogers.”

Mr. Rogers said, “Hello, son. What can I do for you today?”

“Can you tell me about him?”

Mr. Rogers blinked once. Then Mr. Rogers said, “No, son.”

Benjy said, “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Mr. Rogers went on, “I would, if I could, son.”

“I understand,” Benjy said. “It’s all right, Mr. Rogers.”

“I am sorry, son,” Mr. Rogers said, gripping the cane until the knuckles turned white. “I—I do not think I will ever talk about him. If that is why you are coming.”

“No,” Benjy said honestly. “No, I’m coming for you. I just thought—well, I thought maybe _you’d_ like to talk about him.”

Mr. Rogers swallowed. “No,” Mr. Rogers said, turning around slowly. “No, I would not.” He limped off, letting the door shut firmly behind him.

* * *

Sitting on the porch in a rocking chair, Mr. Rogers said, “His favorite color was blue.”

Benjy, already surprised to see him on the porch, finished walking across the path to the steps. He paused at the base, looking up at him. Mr. Rogers said, “He liked blackberry ice cream. Butter pecan. Chocolate truffles. Anything with strawberry.” Rocking back and forth, Mr. Rogers added, “He could tie a knot in a cherry stem. He was very proud of that.”

Taking a seat on the step, Benjy looked over at him, watching him rock along, as Mr. Rogers said, “He didn’t like alarm clocks, so people thought he hated mornings, and he did, most of the time. But he’d wake up with the sun at the beach. He liked sunrises better than sunsets. Sunsets made him sad.” Shutting his eyes, Mr. Rogers said, “Sunrises are a beginning. Sunsets are an end. You can always begin again. You can only end it once.”

Opening them again, Mr. Rogers rocked slowly and added, “He hated shoveling. More than anything. Except toothaches and raisins. He hated raisins.” A rare smile graced Mr. Rogers’ lips. “I don’t think raisins are all that bad, but he’d pick them out of trail mix, so I’d eat them. Now, I don’t eat the rest of the trail mix. I still have a whole carton of those chips and pretzels and leftovers. I s’pose somebody’ll have to eat ‘em, before they go bad.”

A rare tear slipped down Mr. Rogers’ face. “Everybody knows how smart and quick and clever he was, but people don’t know how much he _smiled_ when he had stuff to smile about. He always smiled. He would smile if you told him a good line in the newspaper, you know, word play. A pun. He loved ‘em. He smiled in his suits and he smiled when he played _Monopoly_ and he smiled when he watched movies and he, he cried. A lot. More’n I ever did.” Mr. Rogers drew in a breath, reached up to brush a hand over his eyes.

“He was the most human person you’d ever meet,” Mr. Rogers said. “Loving when he was angry. Never once put his shoes down neatly. Now, I don’t like how my shoes look, alone, all neat and ready to go. He’d tie his ties in such a hurry, I’d straighten them for him, tell him, _You gotta slow down, people’ll think you don’t know how to tie a tie_. Now that I look back, I know he did it on purpose. He liked when I tied his ties. That is love.”

Mr. Rogers shut his eyes again, slowed until he was barely rocking at all. “That is love,” Mr. Rogers repeated. “To do something for somebody because you want to do it, over and over. I think, I am afraid to go out and see flowers that I cannot buy for him.” Another tear slid noiselessly down his cheek. “I wish I had bought him flowers every day. You can never love enough.” Then Mr. Rogers stilled in his chair, another tear sliding down his cheek. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t move an inch, but his grief was palpable, unimaginable in scope.

His own eyes damp, Benjy stood up slowly, and when Mr. Rogers did not open his eyes and dismiss him, he stepped up the final steps, loudly enough that he could not be misunderstood. Then he said simply, “Mr. Rogers?” Mr. Rogers did not move, tears on his face, bright in the sunlight, in the fine spring day, the season of rejuvenation, of growth, of flowers.

Stepping up, carefully wrapping his arms around narrowed shoulders once huge in larger-than-life stories, Benjy comforted, “It’s okay, Mr. Rogers.”

Mr. Rogers said nothing, but he rested a palm against Benjy’s back, and another gripped the arm of his chair, and Benjy hoped to everything it was enough for him. Something. _Anything_.

* * *

“Here you go, Mr. Rogers,” Benjy said, tears trickling down his own face, laying a mat of blue larkspur in front of the headstone. “I brought you something.” Resting a palm on the gray stone, aware of his father sobbing into his mother’s arms nearby, Benjy told the monolith, “Thank you for being with me for a little while.” His sister’s hand squeezed his shoulder, and he pressed his own hand down on it, drawing strength from it as the emotion welled in his throat. “I think we’ll meet again someday, Mr. Rogers.” 

And then, taking the pink larkspur from his sister’s offered hand, he laughed gently, resting them in front of Mr. Stark-Rogers gravestone, and explained, “I hope Mr. Stark can forgive me. They don’t come in red. I’ve heard pink means _contrariness_.” He stood, then, leveraging himself to his feet on knees that were young, still, and a heart that felt old as he looked down at two men who were no more and whispered to the one he knew, one last time, “Good day, Mr. Rogers.”

* * *

They say the soul never grew old. It laughed and loved young, even well unto age, when knees unforgave, and shoulders bent meanly, and hearts thumped painfully slow. It never recognized the passage of time on its skin, as it transcended mortal cages; it never confined itself to such a simple thing as a vessel, a body. No, the soul was above and beyond the body, youthful forever, growing only in laughter, and love, and upwards in numbers of flowers.

When Steve Rogers closed his eyes one last time and opened them again, it was like waking up for the first time in a long time, like coming home after a long sojourn across an unimaginably vast sea. He heard voices he knew, loud and warm, just beyond his sight, across the space, gone forth some indefinable distance. He knew at once who those voices belonged to, knew already the joy of all that was lost, returned to him, knew at last that his broken wings had healed. 

He arose, not from a bed, but in such a way that it resembled awakening. He took his first tentative steps forward, alone, feeling the weight of it, the miracle of it, _you are free of time_ , the ecstatic pulsing joy of it nearly subsuming him. Yet it was not an overpowering, crushing thing, like it might have been outside: rather, it was embodying, electrifying, justifying his place completely in this new, dauntless other-world.

He walked for only a very short distance, no more than six steps, before he saw, as though from a great distance, a figure, a silhouette, emerge. He squinted, and it took shape. He paused, just for a moment, and it held up a hand high, waved it ecstatically in greeting, outsized in death and in life. _Hello!_ Then, at a run, the figure loped across the distance, and he did not make him come the full way, managing three grand steps of his own before capturing in his arms completely Tony, Tony, _oh_ , Tony.

Cradling his head in one hand, his other arm wrapped around his back, Steve held onto him tightly, unable to fathom that it was—“Steve,” Tony said, gripping him back with the same vigor, like he’d missed him, _too_ , and the joy radiating from him was palpable, the gladness seeping into Steve like sunshine. “You’re late,” Tony said, teasing and warm, and Steve—Steve _laughed,_ because there was no pain anymore, not here, not ever again.

“I couldn’t leave my best guy all alone back there, could I?” Steve told him, holding on, two ships reunited at sea.

Cupping his head in both hands, Tony gently pried him back, kissed him warmly—and how wonderful, how utterly _wonderful_ to think _love never died_ —and said simply, “And I couldn’t leave mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus: I will give you a cookie if you can figure out why Steve "likes" burned cookies. Thanks so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed yourself. <3
> 
> Bonus answer: For the prize! Steve likes burnt cookies because Tony, who we all know is the world's most accomplished baker, routinely burns food. So, Steve develops a taste for them as such. Peter knows this because Tony loved Peter as a son, and Peter is kind to Steve in any way he can be after Tony's passing. I truly hope you enjoyed this piece. Have a most wonderful day, my friends.


End file.
